


Ingratiation

by Kennel_Boy



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Gen, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-23
Updated: 2015-03-23
Packaged: 2018-03-19 07:13:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3601035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kennel_Boy/pseuds/Kennel_Boy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Zevran exercises his mediation skills. Totally in the name of self-preservation, of course.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ingratiation

**Author's Note:**

> This story immediately follows "Foolish Among the Desperate." Thanks to those who read, commented, and kudoed.

The fawn stood trembling at the side of the rutted path, head bowed, too dispirited even to flee as the adventuring party rounded the bend. A moment later, the delicate creature lay thrashing in the scrubby grass, its innocent life cut short by the Dalish arrow that had caught it unerringly in the throat.

And that was when the shouting started. Or so Leliana had explained to Zevran after the unexpected commotion sent him vaulting from the back of the wagon, dagger in-hand.

“...absolutely unnecessary!” Alistair was standing toe to toe with the Warden in the middle of the road. “We’ve got provisions enough to see us to Orzammar and beyond! You didn’t need to kill the poor thing!”

“We _think_ we have provisions enough to see us through.” Though tall for one of the Dalish, The Warden still had to look up to meet Alistair’s glare. His response was cool, almost bored, but the way his hand lingered near the hilt of his dagger said that having an armored human towering over him was not helping his mood. “One stroke of ill luck and that could change. I saw a chance to stretch our supplies and took it.”

Even for as short a time as Zevran had been traveling with these people, the tension between Alistair and the Warden had been palpable, but no one had seen fit to enlighten him as to the root cause, and he had decided it was better not to go poking at raw spots when there was no obvious profit. He’d simply taken notice of it as something to possibly exploit to his advantage later.

“Oh, how very pragmatic. Very Dalish. But what’s one more life, right? So long as it benefits you, who cares who has to die?”

Leliana gasped a quiet “Oh!” at Zevran’s shoulder.

The Warden drew himself up. It was the angle of the fading sunlight that caused the elf’s eyes to flash like winter lightning, but that didn’t lessen the effect.

“You pushed leadership on me, stripling,” he snarled. “That means you don’t get to bleat about my decisions. Especially when you don’t actually give a damn about _anyone_ who died back there, least of all those common folk your Lady Isolde sacrificed to her idiocy.” The rejoinder left Alistair fuming and speechless, which seemed to be enough for the Warden to declare the conversation done with. He turned away sharply and gestured to a reasonably flat stretch of ground off the trail. “We’re making camp here. Try to be useful.”

Everyone went to stake out the best spots for their tents (save for the dwarf merchant and his son, who slept in the wagon). As they began break off in ones and twos for camp chores, however, Zevran attached himself to Leliana again, ostensibly to help hunt for firewood.

“What was that all about?”

“We passed through Redcliffe shortly before you joined our party,” Leliana explained, sadness making her pale, blue-grey eyes seem even larger than they were. She certainly could play the part of the mournful waif. “They were under siege by undead, and ruling house was plagued by the demon driving it all. The Warden had to make a choice as to who would die to drive it out. Poor Alistair had family among them and...the lady of the house, Isolde, volunteered to sacrifice herself to end the demon’s reign of terror.”

Ah, yes. The Warden had mentioned that just the other night, but Zevran hadn’t known woman’s name, or that the incident had left such a rift among his traveling companions.

“And Alistair blames the Warden for her choice?”

“He blames the W…” Leliana frowned. “He blames _Jael_ for not advocating a different path. Jael’s words carried weight with the local Bann because he had just helped to save Redcliffe from attack, and he was not of the ruling family, more an impartial observer.” At Zevran’s raised eyebrow, she explained, “We should be calling him by name, non? It is easier to criticize if he is just the Warden and only the sum of his position. We forget that he is a person, and that these are not easy decisions put on his shoulders.”

“I think our Warden would rather we keep our distance.” Zevran crouched to pick up a twig that was hardly worth the effort, then noticed a boot print, little more than the weathered imprint of a heel sheltered by a clump of mountain sorrel, but plain even to a city-born elf. And then, next to it, the print of a horseshoe. On a hunch, he began following the track, gesturing to Leliana to keep up.

“Zevran, we should keep the camp in sight.” But she didn’t hesitate to follow him down the slope.

“Oh yes?” He flashed her a grin across his shoulder. “Are you so worried about running into darkspawn, or is it being alone with the terrible Crow that makes you nervous? Watch your step.”

Leliana skirted the dessicated pile of horse dung without so much as glancing down.

“I don’t see the terrible Crow missing _his_ step by giving our Jael reason to be suspicious,” she chirped sweetly. “Especially when you’re still trying to get into his good graces.”

“I am simply making myself useful.” But he made a note to keep a closer eye on the girl. She spoke a little too freely of her observations, meaning she was either truly as guileless as she seemed, or she wanted him to be aware that she was watching him. And he was not so naive as to assume the former.

“Aren’t we all? Whether in service to the Maker or more earthly masters?”

The slope was becoming more pronounced, but Zevran could see a path, little more than a rutted dirt track, rounding the hill beneath them.

“If the Maker wanted my services, dear lady, he should have taken up a contract with the Crows.” His grin was all mischief, but he quickened his steps just the same. The little Chantry sister seemed _very_ devout, after all, and he didn’t want her to encourage an “accidental” tumble the rest of the way down the hill if his humor didn’t suit her.

The track lead them a cave, little more than a deep niche in the stoney earth. It must have been known to the locals, for there was a fire pit that had seen frequent use in the dirt near the entrance, and a rough path worn in the grass from the passage of many boots and wagon wheels. A wreck of a wagon leaned crookedly against the hillside, half-shielding the entrance.

“Were they attacked?” Leliana peered into the cave, alert for victims or ambush, while Zevran inspected the wagon.

“No, this looks an entirely different type of ill fortune. See? The wheel split.” Zevran turned his inspection to the inside of the wagon. “No blood, no signs of a fight. They even had the time to unhitch their horses. They must have known of this place and limped here to try and make repairs. And when that failed, they took what they could and went overhill to the main road.”

“I think you’re right.” Leliana came to join him. “There are a few crates in the cave. Whoever the wagon belongs to, they must have hidden them there to come back for later.”

“Oh yes?” The Antivan rogue’s eyes gleamed for a moment. “Was there anything worthwhile in those crates?”

“Zevran.”

“What?” He jumped from the wagon bed to join her, then gestured expansively to the listing vehicle. “Look at this...it has been out in the weather for weeks now. I do not think the owners are coming back for their goods, so why should we not salvage them? Anything that aids in the Warden’s quest is for the good of Fereldan, no? It would be a worthy donation to the cause!”

“You’re worse than the dwarf.” But the righteous huff couldn’t hide her smile. “Fine, we can look. But we’re taking only what we need.”

“Only what we need,” Zevran agreed easily, knowing just how flexible that definition could become. “And we should get the others down here as well. I think our Qunari friend would be more than happy to turn that wagon into kindling.”

 

* * *

 

Despite Zevran and Leliana’s discovery providing plentiful wood for the fire and the pot of fresh stew that came as a result (and made all the more anticipated by the fact that it was Morrigan’s turn to cook), the atmosphere of the camp remained tense. The Warden kept his distance from everyone and stalked off for first watch early on, his Mabari padding along faithfully at his side.

Zevran watching him go, stifling a sigh as he finished pounding in his last tent stake. If anything about the situation had been less precarious, he would have done the intelligent thing and left the matter to sort itself out, or perhaps even ingratiated himself to the Warden a bit with some blood-letting remarks about Alistair. But given that they were traveling through darkspawn-infested country that had hardly been all that friendly pre-Blight, he would much prefer that everyone -- particularly their leader -- had their thoughts focused on how much they did not want to be eaten by darkspawn instead of how much they hated each other.

Oh so casually, Zevran ambled over to where Alistair sat ripping up blades of grass and twisting them together before tossing them into the fire. He settled an armspan or two away from the sulky human, then splayed his hands before the fire with a sigh of genuine appreciation. He had procured a heavy woolen jacket for himself from among the stashed provisions, but the mountains were still entirely too cold for his taste.

“You seem to have made a full recovery,” Alistair remarked.

“You know, it is amazing what being bounced around in the back of a wagon does for one’s powers of recuperation.” Zevran nodded in the direction the Warden had taken. “So what has gotten under the skin of our illustrious leader?”

Alistair snorted and sent another pinch of grass to a fiery death. “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that an assassin wouldn’t know what a guilty conscience looks like.”

Zevran resisted the urge to roll his eyes at that unearned bit of petulance, and instead slipped neatly into the role that Alistair had prepared for him. “Oh, is this about the incident in Redcliffe still? Tch. Such a fuss over nothing.”

“Are you insane?” Alistair stared at him, slack-jawed. “People died! That’s not...not _nothing!_ ”

“Oh no?” Zevran shrugged. “I understand that some people died, yes. But there was no avoiding it, was there? Everything was all in motion before you ever set foot in Redcliffe. All our dear Warden had to do was choose who deserved to die most. How hard could that have been?”

Alistair rose to his feet, a tide of furious red surging up to darken his neck and cheeks. For a moment, Zevran was certain he had pushed too far...but then Alistair turned and stomped off into the night after the Warden. Well, he had either given Alistair food for thought, or he had set the senior Warden off on a mission to do away with their leader. And if it came to that, Zevran’s money was on the Dalish. He turned his hopeful attentions to the bubbling stew pot, keeping an ear out to see if he had just made matters worse.


End file.
